by Anne Avery
Since the mayor always opened the festivities with a speech, that roused no enthusiasm whatsoever.
“And third, Miss Merton tells me that Mr. Mike McCord from the Gradie Rose Mine has rounded up a dozen of the unmarried miners to help hang the decorations. Isn’t that wonderful!”
There were some vague murmurs and not a few curious glances at Louisa.
Molly just plain stared. Louisa smiled back, then blushed and ducked her head. The rest no doubt thought she was too modest to accept such public praise, but Molly knew better.
Louisa and Crazy Mike McCord, hmm? Molly smiled, pleased.
She wondered if Witt Gavin knew, and felt a stab of irritation that she couldn’t ask. It had been over a week, yet the big lunk hadn’t yet dredged up the nerve to face her. If he didn’t show up soon, she was going to have to resort to drastic measures just to talk to him.
But talk to him she would. A week of thinking and trying to shake some sense into her head had only made her more determined to marry DeWitt Gavin, no matter what it took to do it.
“Huh!” said Thelma Thompson, unimpressed. “Those miners will come in handy, but one tuba player more or less won’t make a difference to anybody. And if there’s a way to stop Josiah Andersen from talking, I’ve yet to see it. That man loves to talk almost as much as he loves to break the seventh Commandment.”
Molly could see a few of her customers frowning—one was even counting on his fingers—trying to figure out what that particular Commandment forbade.
“You may not have anything to say worth mentioning, but I do,” Thelma continued, grimly determined. “I’ve been telling them there’s something funny going on, over at the bank.”
“The bank!” Emmy Lou exclaimed, indignant. “What does the bank have to do with Founders’ Day?”
“Nothing. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. This is important. Missing deposits, bad math. Not the sort of thing that should happen at a well-run bank. I wanted to take a look at the books, but that uppity Gordon Hancock wouldn’t let me. Imagine! Me! One of their very first depositors!”
“But you said you got the money you’re s’posed to,” someone objected.
“Of course I did!” Thelma snapped. “I’m not about to leave my money in the hands of thieves and scoundrels and incompetents. What do you take me for? A fool?”
Wisely, no one answered that particular question.
“But it’s not just my money that’s at risk, here, and so I told that Hiram Goff. Man looked liked he’d swallowed poison, just at the thought. But I’m telling you all now, there’s dirty doings over at Elk State. You’d be wise to draw your money out while you still can.”
Molly decided it was time she stepped into the fray.
“Thelma, this is pretty serious talk, you know. Especially if you don’t have proof. Now I’m not saying you didn’t find a couple of errors,” she said, holding up a warning hand when Thelma started to object. “Mistakes happen, even to the best of us. But your accusations are exactly the sort of talk that can start a run on a bank, and if that were to happen, we really would have problems.”
“I’m not trying to start a run,” Thelma insisted, pointy chin stubbornly set.
“I know you’re not, but you can’t go around saying—”
“Mother? Mother!” Her son burst into the store like a firecracker, making everyone jump.
“Dickie! How many times have I told you—”
“You gotta come.” He tugged on her hand. “Please?”
No blood, no ripped clothing, no signs of disaster. If it weren’t for the tension in him she would have scolded him for interrupting business.
“All right, then. But make it quick.”
She murmured an excuse to Thelma and her other customers, tugged off her apron and hung it on its peg, then followed her son out the door and around the side of Calhan’s to the alleyway behind.
At the sight of Witt, she stopped short. “Sheriff?”
He looked, she thought, exactly like a little boy caught stealing apples. Every nerve ending in her body tingled at the sight of him.
“Ma’am.” He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “I want you to know, this wasn’t my idea.”
Only then did she notice the sorry mongrel crouched at his feet. “What in the world…?”
“It’s a dog, Mama. Me and the sheriff found ’im.”
“The sheriff and I,” Molly murmured automatically, distracted. She’d never seen a more pathetic specimen of dogdom in her life.
“Jim Perkins and his friends were kickin’ him, Mama. Real hard, so he cried. Can I keep ’im? Can I? Huh? Can I?”
“Dickie…” How was she going to find the words to explain that the poor creature was already half-dead? Or that the last thing she wanted was to add a flea-bitten mongrel like this to her household?
The animal watched her warily, then gently wagged its tail.
“Please? The sheriff’ll shoot ’im if you don’t say yes.”
Molly angrily looked up. Any man who’d say such a thing in front of an impressionable boy like Dickie ought to be shot himself.
He raised his hands, palms up, shrugging an apology. “I didn’t say I’d shoot him, just that he maybe ought to be put out of his misery.”
“Please?” Dickie was almost writhing in his agony.
At that moment a handful of her customers burst round the corner of Calhan’s.
“Thought you might need some help,” huffed one old gentleman, eyes alight at the possibility of disaster.
“You all right, Molly?” Emmy Lou demanded. “We were so worried about you and the boy—”
“Hah! Speak for yourself,” said Thelma, elbowing the old man aside so she could get a better look. “I just wanted to see what was going on.”
“My son has found a dog—” Molly began.
“That’s a dog?” Thelma sniffed. “I’ve seen better-looking rats. Cleaner, too.”
“For once,” said Emmy Lou, “I agree with you completely. You can’t possibly let that creature in your house, Molly. Think of the diseases it must be carrying.”
“And the fleas,” said Thelma.
“It’s probably vicious.”
“Maybe even rabid.”
The dog crouched, then crept to Molly’s feet and stuck out his paw, gently brushing the toe of her shoe where it poked out from beneath her skirt. The flyaway brown ear drooped pathetically.
Without thinking, Molly stooped to scratch behind the ear. The dog wagged its tail once, then grew still, as if waiting for the verdict.
“Pete ain’t vicious!” Dickie protested hotly.
“Isn’t,” Molly said. “Pete isn’t vicious.”
“And he ain’t rabid, neither,” said Dickie, missing the point entirely.
“He’s smart, though,” Witt said helpfully. It didn’t quite have the ring of conviction, but he was trying. “Real smart.”
Dead silence. They all stared at Witt. Then they stared at Pete.
Tongue lolling, Pete stared back.
He had beautiful eyes, Molly thought, and knew she’d lost the battle. She might withstand Dickie’s pleading, but she couldn’t withstand those big, sad brown eyes. She sighed. Pete was joining the family—dirt, fleas, mange and all.
As if sensing victory, Pete barked and painfully scrambled to his feet, tail wagging.
“Hey, boy,” Dickie said, falling to his knees and wrapping his arms around the mutt. “You’re mine now, all mine.”
And that, thought Molly wryly, watching him, was that.
“You’ll be sorry,” Thelma gloomily volunteered, pleased at the prospect.
Emmy Lou tsk-tsked, then turned away, clearly washing her hands of the whole insanity.
“Carbolic in the bath,” she called over her shoulder. “It’s the only way to get rid of the fleas. Lots of carbolic.”
“Dalmation Insect Powder,” Thelma advised.
“Carbolic!”
“Hah!”
&nbs
p; With the rest of the crowd reluctantly trailing after them, the two women walked away, still arguing.
“Take the dog home, Dickie,” Molly ordered. “But stop off at Tommy McLaren’s butcher shop and get some scraps for him first. From the looks of him, he needs food more than he needs even a bath.”
Dickie whooped and jumped to his feet. “Come on, boy. Let’s go home.” After a moment’s hesitation, Pete limped after him.
Molly, resigned, watched them go. “Thelma’s right. I’m going to be sorry.”
“Maybe not,” Witt said. He didn’t sound optimistic.
“There’s some crusts in the bread box,” Molly called after her son. “And eggs in the cupboard. Mix them with the scraps.
“But not too much or he’ll get sick!” she added more loudly an instant before Dickie and his dog disappeared from sight. She wasn’t at all sure he’d heard her, or that he’d pay attention to her warning if he had.
“I’ll deal with the bath when I get home,” she muttered to no one in particular.
Witt made a small, encouraging little sound and started to edge away.
“And you,” she added, scowling fiercely and stabbing a finger into his chest before he could escape. “You, I’ll deal with just as soon as I’ve dealt with that darned dog you’ve foisted on me.”
Chapter Sixteen
It was half past seven when Witt walked up the Calhan garden path and knocked on their back door.
Bonnie opened the door. For a second she just stared at him, then at what he carried. Then she swung the door wide.
“Come in,” she said, and smiled. “I’m sure Mother will be glad to see you.”
Her smile struck terror in his heart. She looked as if she was waiting to enjoy a hanging, and he was the chosen hangee.
Witt stepped into a room transformed. The kitchen table and its chairs had been pushed back against the far wall and a battered tarp spread on the floor in their place. In the center of the tarp stood a large tin washtub half-filled with water. Four large kettles on the stove steamed gently, waiting to be poured out. A pot of soap and a large bottle of carbolic stood on the floor beside the tub. A pile of what looked like old towels and sheets had been tossed at the edge of the tarp, safely out of the reach of any splashing.
On the far side of the tub and as far as possible from the cupboards and cooking area, Dickie and his dog sat in the middle of another old cloth. Dickie was covered with bits and clumps of dirty brown fur. Pete was covered with not much of anything—all his fur except the long hair on his ears and tail had been cut off, leaving him looking like a misbegotten and badly shorn brown sheep. Without the fur to hide them, his bones seemed ready to poke through the scruffy hide. His belly, however, looked comfortably rounded.
Impossible as it seemed, the dog was even uglier with its fur off than it was with it on, Witt decided.
At the sight of him, Pete’s ears perked. He gave a welcoming bark, then turned and gave Dickie’s ear a friendly lick. Dickie giggled.
“Hi, Sheriff.” He waved the pair of shears he held. “I’m trimmin’ Pete up for his bath.”
“He needs lots more than a bath,” Bonnie huffed. The huff might have been more convincing if she’d hadn’t gone out of her way to give the dog a pat before she walked out of the kitchen.
“Mother!” Witt heard her call. “Water’s boiling.”
A moment later, Molly walked into the kitchen. She wore a fraying work dress under the biggest apron Witt had ever seen, and had covered her hair with a large and extraordinarily ugly head shawl. His blood raced, just at the sight of her.
He forced down dangerous thoughts and held up his gifts, instead. “Figured since you’re holdin’ me partly responsible for all this, I ought to contribute somethin’ to the cause. The harnessmakers did up a proper collar and braided leash for him.” He grinned. “Doesn’t look like you’re going to need the comb tonight, though. I’ve seen rocks with more hair than that dog has left.”
Dickie grabbed for the collar. “Hey, Pete! It’s got your name and everything! See?”
Pete sniffed, ears perked. When it proved inedible, his ears flattened. He whined and looked pitiful. Dickie slipped him a bite of bread when Molly wasn’t looking.
Witt took a step backward, toward the door. “Guess I’ll let you get on with—”
“Oh, no you don’t!” Molly grabbed his sleeve before he’d gone a foot. “You’re not getting out of it that easily. Here,” she added, slapping a thick pot holder into his hand. “You pour the hot water, I’ll add the soap.”
He thought of protesting. The dangerous gleam in her eye convinced him not to try.
“Decided to go for the carbolic instead of the flea powder, I see,” he said, tipping out the first of the big kettles. Steam and the harsh smell of carbolic filled the air, making them both blink.
“I decided to go for both,” Molly said, setting the half-emptied bottle aside. “There’s two boxes of powder on the table for as soon as he’s dry and brushed.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“If I’d thought that, I’d have sent the dog home with you instead of letting Dickie keep him,” she replied tartly.
Witt glanced at the boy, then leaned close, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “If it were up to me, I’d have shot ’im.”
Molly grinned and lowered her voice to match. “Actually, so would I.”
Witt’s heart skipped a beat. Another couple of inches and he’d be kissing her.
He jerked back, breathed deep, and choked on the carbolic fumes. When he returned with the second kettle, she’d moved around to the far side of the tub.
She eyed the tub, then the dog, then him. Then, jaw set in unyielding determination, she unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled up her sleeves. “Ready?”
His last hope of escape died. Reluctantly, Witt removed his vest and gun belt and set them aside, then even more reluctantly rolled up his sleeves. He flexed his muscles, stretched his fingers. “Ready.”
Pete might have been starving, but there was plenty of strength left in that scrawny body. It took both of them to get him in the tub—Witt lifting, Molly sticking first one leg back in, then another, as Pete struggled to get free.
“I’ll hold, you scrub,” Witt gasped, blinking at the stinging faceful of carbolic-laced water he’d just been hit with. He grabbed for a leg before Pete scrambled back out of the tub. “And make sure you scrub fast.”
On her knees on the opposite side of the tub, Molly started scrubbing. The first run through barely cut through the worst of the dirt. Her head shawl kept slipping down, dirt and soapsuds streaked one cheek, and water dripped from her chin. Her apron was so wet, it clung to her in sodden wrinkles.
Twice they bumped heads. Witt swore, apologized, then swore again as Pete almost got away from him.
“I’ve known full-grown steers weren’t as hard to wrestle as this sorry lump of wolf bait,” he panted.
He wrapped his left arm more securely around the mutt, then risked freeing his right to wipe his face. Instantly, Pete wriggled away and lunged for freedom.
“Damn!”
A gout of dirty water splashed over the side and into Molly’s lap. She squealed and rocked back on her heels.
“Hold him, drat it!” she snapped. “Don’t let him jump around like that!”
“I’m tryin’.”
“Don’t hurt ’im!” Dickie pleaded, anxiously dancing around the lake spreading over the tarp-covered floor.
Witt wrapped both arms around the dog until he was half in, half out of the tub. His knees ached. His pants and shirt were drenched and water was creeping into his boots. He glared at Molly, only inches away.
“Would you please just finish with it?”
She shoved her head shawl away from her face and glared right back. “I can’t. Not with you wrapped around him like that.”
“And I can’t hold him any other way.” When she just kept on glaring at him, he added, low and menacing, “I can alwa
ys let him go as is, clean or not. You choose.”
She thought about it for a second, snarled and dug into the pot of soap once more.
He should have been more reasonable, Witt decided two minutes later. Scrubbing the dog meant her hands sliding along his chest and ribs. It meant leaning so close that he could smell the scent of her, even with the carbolic filling his nose. It meant her shoulder brushing against him, and her warm breath on his bare, wet arm, and the edge of her head shawl tickling his nose so that he ached to rip it off her.
It meant coming dangerously close to making a fool of himself by closing that small gap that separated them and kissing her right there in her kitchen in front of God and Dickie Calhan. Pete, he decided, didn’t count.
It got so bad, he loosened his grip on the still-squirming dog so that when she leaned back and said, “There. All done. You can let him go,” he let Pete go, just like that.
In one great sucking swoosh of water, Pete vaulted out of the tub, drenching them both. Molly barely had time to put up her hands and turn her head when the mutt got all four feet under him and shook.
Water sprayed everywhere—on the sodden floor, the walls, the chairs and them. Whatever hit the stove hissed and turned to steam.
“Stupid dog,” Molly said, and got sprayed again as Pete gave one last, good shake to his dripping tail.
Witt laughed, and got a sodden washrag in the face for it.
“Atta boy, Pete!” Dickie pounced on him, towel at the ready.
Half-buried in the towel, the dog wriggled and squirmed and shook some more, then lavished anxious wet kisses on a delighted Dickie.
“Make sure you get him dry before you take him out again,” Molly warned. “It may be summer, but this time of night it’s too cold for him to be out there, wet like that and without a thick coat of fur to protect him.”
If Dickie heard, he gave no sign. He was too busy scrubbing at the dog and crooning outright lies about how handsome he was and what a good, brave dog he’d been.
Witt was too busy drinking in the sight of Molly to pay any heed.
She caught him staring, and frowned.
“What?” she demanded crossly. “I can’t possibly look any worse than you do.”